


What's On My Mind

by verysorrytobother



Series: Talk to Me AU [3]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Boxer Stan Pines, Boxing & Fisticuffs, College Student Ford Pines, Ford Pines Needs a Hug, Ford Pines is a Good Brother, Homeless Stan Pines, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Mystery Trio, Non-Graphic Violence, Protective Ford Pines, Stan Pines Angst, Stan Pines Needs A Hug, Stangst, Suicidal Ideation (mentioned), Talk to Me AU, Violence, and yes all of these titles are songs/song lyrics, more Fiddleford on the banjo, throat trauma (mentioned)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:22:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28106205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verysorrytobother/pseuds/verysorrytobother
Summary: Both Pines brothers are walking on eggshells, and neither knows how to fix it. That is, until a certain flyer gives Stan an idea that could change everything.
Relationships: Fiddleford H. McGucket & Ford Pines, Fiddleford H. McGucket & Ford Pines & Stan Pines, Fiddleford H. McGucket & Stan Pines, Ford Pines & Stan Pines
Series: Talk to Me AU [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2056503
Comments: 26
Kudos: 107





	What's On My Mind

“Stanley Pines, will you quit yer goshdarn bellyachin’ and let me finish? You know as well as I do that these bandages gotta be changed!” 

Stan grumbled, but stopped fidgeting. “I barely even need ‘em anymore,” he muttered. “Can’t we just not, and say we did?” 

Fiddleford tut-tutted and shook his head. “Enough o’ that. I swear, it’s like dealin’ with a child... _ there  _ we go. See? Was that so bad?” 

“Hey, just ‘cause Ford likes bein’ manhandled doesn’t mean I do!” 

Fiddleford threw up his hands exasperatedly. “Fer the last time, we are not boyfriends!” 

“Oh, yeah? Then what do you call last Tuesday’s... _ incident? _ ” 

“Those chemicals were dangerous! We  _ had  _ to get his clothes off right away, ‘fore it could touch his skin!” 

“Sheesh, I know you two are nerds, but  _ that’s  _ the story you come up with? Really?” 

“It ain’t a—”

Ford poked his head out of his bedroom and shot them a stern glare. “Could you two keep it down? I’m trying to work here!” 

Stan and Fiddleford both winced as the door slammed, shaking the thin apartment walls. Stan scratched his neck and cleared his throat. 

“Hey Fidds, do you think maybe we should—” His coat suddenly smacked him in the face, muffling the rest.

“Get outta here while he works on his thesis?” Fiddleford finished, shrugging his own jacket on. “Yeah, I reckon that’s a good idea.” 

* * *

They made their way down the street in silence. Stan’s hands were shoved deep into his pockets and he kept his eyes fixed on the ground. After a while, Fiddleford sighed. 

“I’m sorry, Stan. I didn’t mean ta shout.”

“Nah, it was my fault for teasin’ ya,” Stan said quietly, still not looking up. “I won’t do it anymore.” 

“I—I appreciate that,” Fiddleford said, surprised. He frowned thoughtfully. Normally he’d be happy for such a sentiment. Heck, ten minutes ago he’d wanted nothing more than for Stan to leave him alone. 

Now, though, he couldn’t help but feel that something was... _ off.  _

And wasn’t that just another addition to an ever-growing list? Stan would only ever shower at three in the morning, so that he wasn’t “hogging the bathroom” when Ford and Fiddleford needed it. He insisted on doing all of the cooking and cleaning, and constantly brought up the topic of getting a job as soon as he was healed. He would eat so little food that it was a near-daily struggle just to get him to take seconds. He would be loud and obnoxious one moment, and completely shrink into himself the next. 

The scars on Stan’s neck might be coming along, but some wounds took longer to heal. 

“So...do ya wanna head to the coffeeshop? I could go fer some of those pastries right about now,” Fiddleford said. 

Stan shrugged. “Sure.” 

By the time they reached the small café, snow was beginning to fall. Fiddelford ordered two hot cocoas and some danishes. After paying he turned and looked around, confused—usually Stan would’ve gotten them a table. Instead, he was just standing by the wall, staring at a cork board covered in flyers and advertisements. 

“Whatcha lookin’ at?” 

“Fidds!” Stan exclaimed, spinning around so suddenly that he nearly knocked the hot cocoa from Fiddleford’s hands. “There’s an amateur boxing tournament next Friday! Do you know what this means?” 

Fiddleford frowned as he balanced their styrofoam cups and shifted the pastry bag before it could slip. “Half a dozen fools are gonna get their heads knocked in?” 

Stan grinned. “Exactly. And I’m gonna be one of ‘em!”

One of the hot cocoas started to fall, and Stan barely managed to catch it. “Whoah, careful there. You don’t wanna—” He stopped at Fiddleford’s incredulous expression. “What? What is it?” 

Fiddleford cleared his throat. “Let’s sit down,” he finally managed. 

* * *

“Alright, first things first: since  _ when _ do you box?” 

Stan sipped his cocoa, looking just as surprised as Fiddleford. “What, you mean Ford never told you? Our pops signed us up when we were kids. Said it’d toughen us up.” 

Although it shouldn’t have been possible, Fiddleford’s eyes bugged out even more behind his glasses. “Stanford boxed?!  _ Stanford  _ boxed?!” 

“Well, yeah. Was never really his thing, though. He seriously never mentioned it?” 

Fiddleford drummed his fingers on the table. “Well, that’s  _ one  _ mystery solved,” he muttered. 

Stan took a bite of danish, looking annoyed. “Ya lost me.” 

“Right. Well, see, Ford is...weird about boxin’. Fightin’ in general, come to think of it, but boxin’ especially. I went to see a couple fights freshman year, an’ he wouldn’t come. Wouldn’t let me get in a word about it, neither. Just said he hated it an’ to leave it at that.” 

“Right,” Stan said quietly. “That...that makes sense.” He hesitated before continuing. “But...I still think I should do it. The winner gets  _ ten thousand dollars,  _ Fidds!” 

Fiddleford spewed hot cocoa over the table. 

“Ten—” he croaked, coughing, “—ten  _ what  _ now? Ya—ya must’ve read it wrong!” He stood and rushed over to the flyer, cleaning his glasses a few times just to make sure. Stan rolled his eyes and wiped up the mess of cocoa. 

“I will admit,” Fiddleford said, shakily returning to his seat, “that that changes things slightly. But...but Stan, let’s say you _do_ win, alright? What would ya even do with that much money?” 

Stan raised his eyebrows like it should be obvious. “Pay you guys back for lettin’ me stay.” 

Fiddleford stared, and he swore he felt his heart break a little bit. 

“What’re you goin’ on about? Ya don’t—ya don’t gotta  _ pay  _ us!” 

“Yeah, I do,” Stan said softly, looking down at his drink. “I’m nothin’ but a nuisance. I’ve outstayed my welcome as is. I was plannin’ on gettin’ a job, and waitin’ to leave ‘till I had enough saved up, but this way I can knock it out all in one go.” 

Fiddleford started to say something, but Stan interrupted him. “Not to mention, you guys paid my hospital bill. Ford wouldn’t tell me how much it was, but I’m guessin’ it was a lot.” 

Fiddleford was quiet for a long moment. “Stanley, when was the last time you were in a fight?” 

Stan gestured to his neck. 

“No, no, I mean—an official fight.” 

“Oh,” he said, frowning. “I think...four months ago, maybe? I dunno. I’m not rusty, if that’s what you’re askin’.” 

Fiddleford nodded. He was still having a hard time picturing Stan as a boxer—mainly due to his resemblance to Ford. Sure, Stan was a little broader in the shoulders, slightly more muscular, and he didn’t have a cleft chin or a sixth finger...but other than that, the Pines twins were identical. “Just outta curiosity, was it...legal?” 

Stan laughed. “Heck no! But I had ta pay for food somehow, and the Rip-Off wasn’t cutting it.” 

Fiddleford remembered him mentioning a history of selling questionable products, and decided not to ask. He drummed his fingers a little longer before pushing away from the table. On the off chance Stan  _ did  _ win, Fiddleford certainly wouldn’t accept his prize money...but maybe keeping busy would do Stan some good. At the very least, it would keep them out of the apartment while Ford finished his thesis. 

“The poster said that the tournament’s bein’ held at that gym on Schaal Avenue. I guess we better go get you signed up before all the spaces fill.” 

* * *

_ Through my investigation of the seismic readings, as well as my analysis of the aforementioned anecdotal evidence, I have concluded that a relationship between earthquakes and anomalies—here defined as anything falling into the category of strange, unusual, or statistically improbable—must be present. Though this definition for “anomaly” may seem subjective at first glance… _

Ford groaned and slammed his head onto his desk. Writing dissertations was by no means an exciting pursuit. Even though the subject matter interested him, it seemed like a waste of time to be theorizing from a desk when he could be out there exploring and discovering for himself. 

But that was why this thesis was so important. With any luck, it would qualify him for a scientific grant that he could use to fund his studies; and with money no longer an issue, he would be able to do as much fieldwork as he wanted. 

He went to take a drink from his mug and groaned again. Empty. He needed to invent some way to keep this from happening. A self-contained wormhole? It might work, but creating an infinite source of coffee could potentially cause it to become a carrier for some sort of inter-dimensional travel sickness. Also, cardiac arrest. 

Ford shuffled to the kitchen. For now, a regular old coffee maker would have to do. 

He sat at the table as he waited for it to finish brewing, lost in thought. He found himself staring at the living room couch. He rested his hand on his chin and sighed.

Stan had been walking on eggshells ever since they brought him home with them a few weeks ago. Making himself scarce, cleaning things almost obsessively, constantly apologizing. And on the rare occasion he’d let down his guard and begin to act more like, well,  _ Stan,  _ he’d almost immediately close himself off again. 

Ford supposed he was to blame for the awkward atmosphere. He just wanted to take care of his brother, keep him safe, but Stan had been  _ homeless  _ for four years, and no doubt he held some resentment towards Ford for that. Ford knew that his attempts at reconciliation only  _ after _ Stan had had a brush with death were too little, too late. He knew that the chances of bringing their relationship back to how it used to be were slim at best.

But he still needed to try. 

Every single day, he was reminded of how close he’d come to losing his twin. He flinched whenever the phone rang, remembering those horrible two hours that he’d spent waiting, praying, desperately wishing that Stan would call back. He woke up in a cold sweat from nightmares of Stan laying bloody and lifeless in a phone booth. He couldn’t even bring himself to help change Stan’s bandages, so Fiddleford had to do it—he didn’t think he could handle seeing the scars, one from a knife and one from the tracheostomy.

But the worst of it was Stan’s voice. Even though Ford would take anything over the silence Stan had been forced into while the tube was in place, it still sent a pang through his chest that Stan’s voice would likely never be the same. It had always been somewhat rough and gravelly, but now it carried a certain  _ whispiness  _ characteristic of a once-punctured windpipe. And every time Stan spoke, Ford couldn’t help but feel that it was all his fault. 

He jumped as the door flew open and Fiddleford and Stan entered, stomping the snow off their shoes. Fiddleford noticed Ford as he was hanging up his coat. “Howdy, Stanford! How’s yer thesis comin’ along?” 

“Slowly, but surely,” he said. “I should have it finished by the end of next week.” 

Stan raked his hands through his hair, brushing the snow out, and Ford wrinkled his nose. “Goodness, Stanley,” he said, taking a sip of his freshly-brewed coffee. “You could really use a haircut. A few more inches, and you’ll have a mullet.” 

“It’s not that much longer than yours,” Stan pointed out. “And if you think  _ this  _ is bad, you should consider yourself lucky that you missed the classic Steve Pinington ‘stache.” 

Ford nearly choked on his coffee. Stan chuckled. 

“Yeah, it was pretty awful. Besides, the babes like me better clean-shaven.” He wiggled his eyebrows seductively, and Ford rolled his eyes. 

“Yes, I’m sure. If you’ll excuse me, I should really get back to my dissertation...” 

“Actually, Stan an’ I have somethin’ ta tell ya first,” Fiddleford said, taking a paper from his pocket. “We—” 

“Made a truce!” Stan interrupted, grabbing the paper from Fiddleford’s hand, crumpling it into a ball, and hiding it behind his back. “We agreed not to argue anymore, until your thesis-thingy is done. No more distractions from us!” 

Fiddleford opened his mouth to say something, and Stan glared at him. Fiddleford frowned. Stan glared harder. They seemed to have a silent conversation with their eyes until finally, Fiddleford sighed and nodded. 

“Right. That.” 

Ford stared at them, one eyebrow raised. “Alright...thank you,” he said slowly. He shook his head and went back to his bedroom, coffee in hand. 

He sat down at his desk and cracked his knuckles before continuing.  _ Though this definition of “anomaly” may seem subjective at first glance, I have dedicated a significant portion of this analysis to the explanation and defense of such a definition, as I find that it perfectly encapsulates my findings… _

* * *

Fiddleford rounded on him as soon as Ford’s door clicked shut. 

“Why wouldn’t ya let me tell ‘im?” he hissed, hands on his hips. 

Stan shrugged and plopped down onto the couch. “I don’t see any reason to bother him with it.” 

“It wouldn’t be  _ botherin’  _ him, Stan, it’s...he’s yer  _ brother! _ Don’t ya think he’d  _ want _ to know?”

“No,” Stan said immediately. “He wouldn’t. You said it yourself, he hates boxing.” 

“Well, yeah, but—”

“Just drop it, Fidds,” Stan snapped. “I don’t wanna tell him, so I’m not gonna tell him. Alright? Let’s leave it at that.” 

He turned over so he wasn’t facing Fiddleford and wrapped the blanket tighter around himself. Fiddleford huffed and stormed off to his bedroom. 

Once Fiddleford was gone, Stan rolled over and stared at the ceiling. This tournament could change everything. It  _ had  _ to. If he won, that prize money would fix all of his problems; he could pay Fidds and Ford back for everything they’d done for him, plus extra. He could send a chunk to Ma and Pa, prove that he was trying his best. (Even if it wasn’t enough yet—thousands of dollars was a start, but he needed millions.)

And whatever was leftover, he could use to leave. 

It’s not that he  _ wanted  _ to—Ford and Fiddleford had given him the closest thing to a home that he’d had in years. But he couldn’t stay. He couldn’t keep being this waste of space, sucking up their money and giving them nothing but the occasional wisecrack in return. He couldn’t keep lashing out at Fiddleford whenever he was feeling down. 

He couldn’t be around Ford. 

That’s what it came down to, in the end. Ford had been walking on eggshells ever since they brought Stan home from the hospital. He’d start to laugh or tease, like the old Ford would have, and then he’d...stop. Like he caught himself doing something bad. He’d shut down and get this weird look on his face, and Stan knew that it was because of him. 

He knew it in the same way he knew that Ford was only helping him out of pity. Out of a sense of responsibility. Because Stan sure as hell didn’t deserve to be cared about, not after what happened between them. Not after he ruined Ford’s life. Neither of them had mentioned the science project since the phone call—and Moses, wasn’t  _ that  _ a mistake, he should’ve just died in peace in that alley without bothering anyone—but Stan could feel it hanging in the air above their heads, waiting to come crashing down. After all, it’s not like you could go four years pretending you didn’t have a twin, resenting any reminder of his existence, and then suddenly flip a switch and  _ boom,  _ everything’s okay now. 

All Stanley wanted his brother back.

But he couldn’t help but feel that he was already gone. 

* * *

Ford pounded on Fiddleford’s door. “Fiddleford, I need you! Wake up! Wake  _ up,  _ please!” 

Fiddleford finally opened the door, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes blearily. “What’s the matter? It’s five in the mornin’.” 

“Stanley’s missing!” 

Fiddleford stared at him for a moment, confused, before a look of recognition passed over his face. “Oh, that. Don’t worry, he’s just out runnin’.” 

Ford was not calmed down in the slightest. Pulling at his hair, he shouted, “Why is he  _ running?!  _ He’s still healing! Why in the  _ world _ would—”

“Hey, I tried tellin’ him exactly that,” Fiddleford said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “But you know how stubborn those Pines boys are. And anyhow, he’s been alright so far.” 

Ford rolled his eyes. “Ha ha, very funny—” He paused. “Wait, what do you mean, ‘so far’?”

Fiddleford paled. “I, uh, I’m goin’ back to sleep.” 

“Fiddleford.” 

“He just wants ta keep in shape, that’s all! Nothin’ suspicious whatsoever!” 

_ “Fiddleford.”  _

“And hey, while we’re askin’ questions, how come  _ yer  _ up so early, huh?” 

“That doesn’t matter!” Ford yelled, and Fiddleford took a step back.

Ford’s eyes widened.

“I—I’m sorry.” He shakily ran his hands through his hair and took a deep breath to calm himself. “I just...couldn’t fall back asleep, that’s all.” 

Fiddleford’s eyes softened. “Ah. More nightmares?” 

Ford’s silence was all the answer he needed. 

“Look,” Fiddleford said with a sigh, “yer worried about him. I get that. But Stanley’s his own man. We can’t just build ‘im a robotic pair o’ leg braces that’ll control where he goes and inhibit his movements at the push of a button.” 

Ford opened his mouth, then closed it. “That was...an oddly specific example.” 

“My point is, Stan’s fine. And if he isn’t, well, that’s what we’re here for, right?” 

Ford seemed to deflate, and he nodded. “Yes. Yes, you’re right, as usual. Thank you, Fiddleford.” 

Fiddleford waved him off. “Don’t mention it. But I  _ am  _ gonna go back to bed now.” Without another word, he shut the door in Ford’s face. 

Ford collapsed onto his own bed and made a frustrated noise into the sheets.

All he wanted his brother back. 

What was he doing wrong? 

* * *

“You scared Stanford this mornin’,” Fiddleford said, holding the punching bag steady for Stan. “He woke up and you were gone.” 

Stan snorted and kept punching. “Yeah, okay.”  _ Jab jab, cross, jab, uppercut, jab jab… _

“I mean it, Stan. He was right panickin’—” 

“Left hook!” 

The force of Stan’s punch almost knocked Fiddleford over. Stan straightened, panting and wiping the sweat off his brow. He clapped the Southern man on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Fidds. After tonight, everything changes.” 

As he stalked off to get changed, he didn’t hear Fiddleford mutter, “That’s what I’m afraid of.” 

* * *

The crowd cheered beyond the door, nearly drowning out the pounding in Stan’s chest. He took a deep breath and shook out his arms, trying to loosen up. He wasn’t too worried about the first match; most of the competitors he’d seen so far were either overweight middle-aged men, or young college boys with something to prove. A piece of cake, compared to the rings he usually fought in. 

If he won, though, he’d soon be facing more formidable foes. The man next to him was a harsh reminder of that fact. He was a hulking, heavily-tattooed mass of muscle that could probably crack a boulder with his bare hands. Stan grinned and nodded in greeting. 

“Hey, bucko. What number are you? Wanna trade?” 

The man simply glared at Stan in response. 

“Sheesh, forget I asked.” 

Stan walked back over to the doors and caught a glimpse of his reflection in the glass. The scars were pinkish-white and raised; a thin horizontal line on the front, and a longer, jagged mark on the side. He traced over them absent-mindedly. Having his neck exposed after weeks of it being wrapped was a strange sensation. Fiddleford had suggested keeping the bandages on, just in case, but Stan was having none of it. 

_ “I can’t show up to a boxing match with a band-aid,” he said. “It’d make me look like a wuss. Besides, chances are it would come loose in the fight, anyway.”  _

_ “Alright,” Fiddleford conceded with a heavy sigh. “But you’d better be careful out there. Stanford’ll kill me if anythin’ happens to you.”  _

_ “Yeah, I love you too, pal.”  _

“Next up, we have Tommy Rizzo and Stanley Pines!” 

Stan’s eyes snapped open. He shoved in his mouth guard and pushed through the doors, pulling on his gloves as he went. The crowd roared on either side of him, the familiar sound pushing him forward. He stepped up to the ring and ducked under the ropes, taking his place in the red corner. He smiled to himself—red always was his lucky color. 

_ “He’s got a nice suit, too. Real expensive-lookin’.”  _

_ “Yeah ‘cept Jack had to go bloody it up.”  _

_ “Eh, it’s red, ain’t it?” _

Stan squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. Alright, maybe red wasn’t  _ always  _ lucky. 

His opponent stepped into the ring. He was slightly shorter than Stan, and bigger around the middle, but he looked strong and was in his early thirties at the latest. In Stan’s mind, there was a big difference between “old” and “experienced,” and this Rizzo fellow looked to be in the latter category. 

“No kicking, biting, or shots below the belt,” the announcer said before stepping back out of their way. “And...FIGHT!” 

The other guy lunged forward, and Stan ducked out of the way. He spun around and landed a quick jab to the guy’s abdomen and another to the side of his head before he had to dodge again. He jumped back, bouncing on the balls of his feet. 

Stan made it a habit to block out the crowd at these things, as more often than not they were calling for his blood. Whether they were cheering or jeering, he didn’t want distractions. But a voice cut through his self-imposed fog, clear and ringing above the rest. . 

“Give it to ‘im, Stanley! Show that dog-eared swaggle-spittin’ sallymander what yer made of!”

Stan grinned. 

* * *

Willie frowned. Something seemed familiar about the kid in the ring, but he couldn’t quite place it. He pushed his way through the crowd, getting as close to the boxers as he could before security made him back up.

Who  _ was  _ that guy? He still couldn’t tell, but he was starting to get a Bad Feeling. And whenever Willie got a Bad Feeling, it usually had something to do with a past job.

He started back up to his seat in the bleachers, paused, then headed for Greenroom #2 instead. 

“Hey, this area’s for fighters only,” a burly security guard said. Thankfully, Ben peeked through the door’s window right then.   
“It’s alright, he’s with me,” Ben said. He pushed through the doors and Willie immediately grabbed his arm, pulling him to the side. “Whoah, what’s the matter?” 

“Do you recognize ‘im?” 

Ben squinted in the direction Willie was pointing. “Which one?” 

“The one in red. Does he look familiar ta you?” 

Ben furrowed his brow. “Nah, I don’t think so. Why? You gettin’ another Bad Feelin’?” 

“Maybe,” Willie muttered. “I know we’ve both been on edge since the Philly job, and I don’t wanna be paranoid or nothin’, but I can’t help it. Somethin’s off about that guy.” 

Ben shrugged. “Well, it ain’t Jack or Frank, that’s for sure. And ‘long as it’s not one a’ them, I think we’re safe,” he said. Willie nodded, though he still looked unsure. 

“Hey,” Ben said, cupping the back of Willie’s head with his hand, “don’t worry ‘bout it. I only gotta win three more matches, and we’ll have enough money to put all a’ this behind us.” 

Willie managed a small smile. “Buenos Aires?” 

“Anywhere you pick, buddy, ‘long as it’s got beaches and beer.” Ben clapped him on the neck and headed back into the greenroom. Willie went back to his seat, feeling better already. 

The Bad Feeling didn’t quite go away, though.

* * *

“The winner, by unanimous decision, is...STANLEY PINES!” 

Stan let out a whoop of victory, throwing his fists in the air. The crowd cheered, and this time, he soaked it all in. His lip was bleeding, his left eye was beginning to swell, and that spot on his ribs was gonna be sore tomorrow—but he felt amazing. 

Fiddleford hollered something he couldn’t quite make out, and—hold up, how the heck did he get a  _ banjo  _ in here? Stan laughed. 

Someone was ushering him out of the ring. “Great job,” the man said. “We’ll bring you back to the greenroom, it’ll be about an hour before your next match.” 

Stan let himself be escorted back to Greenroom #1. The tattooed man from before was just stepping up to the ring.  _ I hope I don’t end up fightin’  _ him, Stan thought.  _ The dude probably bench-presses grizzlies. _

One match down, three more to go. 

* * *

Fiddleford couldn’t get his leg to stop bouncing. 

Half of it was from excitement. Fiddleford wasn’t exactly sure what his own expectations were, going into this—he’d convinced himself beforehand not to think too hard about it—but somehow, Stan was still managing to exceed them. 

His first match had been incredible. In fact, his opponent only landed a few blows; Stan was remarkably agile, more so than Fiddleford would’ve given him credit for. He hit hard and he hit fast, so between that and the lack of damage taken, it was no surprise when the judges unanimously proclaimed him the winner. 

Stan’s second match was another story. His opponent had him pinned against the ropes for a good while in the first round before Stan managed to break free with an uppercut. During the one-minute resting period, Fiddleford stood and played “American Pie” as loud as he possibly could, singing to boot. He’d gotten a few dirty looks from other spectators at first, but Stan heard him, and that was all that mattered. He searched the crowd until he found Fiddleford, shot him a wink, and got to his feet with renewed energy. After that, the fight had slowly turned in Stan’s favor until the three rounds were over and both men were exhausted and bleeding. It had been a split decision, but somehow, Stan still came out on top. 

Stan only needed to win two more matches, and the ten thousand dollars would be his. Fiddleford knew how important the prize money was to him; even though he himself could care less, seeing as he would  _ not  _ be taking any of it, Stan had worked so hard and Fiddleford wanted to see that hard work pay off. 

But his leg was also bouncing from anxiety. The fights were getting harder as winners moved up the bracket, and the boxers were getting exhausted. And even though the event coordinators convened a reasonably long intermission, Fiddleford was pretty sure that holding the entire tournament in one night was legally questionable, if not downright against the law. (Not that that would stop Stanley—by his own admission, he’d done far worse for far less.)

Stan and all the other fighters were wearing out. They were getting desperate. They were so close to the finish line that they could smell blood, and they were working themselves into a frenzy. Fiddleford did some quick mental calculations and sketched the function on a spare napkin, and was dismayed to see that his hypothesis was correct; the chances of injury were increasing exponentially.

“Returning to the ring for his third match of the evening...give it up for...STANLEY PINES!” 

The crowd roared, and despite the blisters covering his fingers, Fiddleford readied his banjo.

Stan just had to hold on a little while longer.

* * *

Ford leaned heavily on the counter, waiting for yet another pot of coffee to finish brewing. He was  _ so close  _ to finishing. Just a few more distraction-free hours, and he’d be done. 

Stan and Fiddleford were nowhere to be found. Ford didn’t know what they got up to these days, only that they were spending more and more time out of the apartment to give him the space he needed to work. Which was incredibly thoughtful, and he  _ did  _ appreciate it, but…

Well. No time to dwell on any of that. Suffice to say, he was glad that the thesis was nearly complete. 

He was just heading back to his bedroom when he paused, squinting at the living room couch. Something was tucked between the cushions, barely poking out. It was a wonder it’d caught his eye at all. 

Maybe it was the miniature molecular destabilizer he’d misplaced. Though why that would be in the couch, Ford had no idea. Then again,  _ everything  _ seemed to turn up in the couch at some point, so it wasn’t that far-fetched of a theory. 

As he came closer, he realized that it was a crumpled-up piece of paper. Ford sighed and pulled it out—it wouldn’t do for Stan to be sleeping on piles of garbage. 

He was just about to throw it away when he stopped in his tracks.  _ Stan _ ...hadn’t  _ Stan  _ had a balled-up paper? Sometime last week...yes, that was it! The night he and Fiddleford came home covered in snow! And Fiddleford had wanted to show him something—but then Stan had grabbed it, crumpled it up—and they were acting so suspicious, but Ford had been busy, so he dismissed it at the time—

He unfolded the paper.

It was a flyer. A flyer for…

The mug fell from his hands.

It shattered and spilled freshly-brewed coffee all over the floor.

Ford barely noticed. He was already out the door, shrugging on his coat and running in the direction of Schaal Avenue. 

* * *

Stan flashed the crowd his most winning smile and waved. He’d never heard this much applause in his life—not directed at _ him _ , anyway. If their constant jamming-their-hands-together was any indication, he was something of a fan favorite. 

It was a new feeling, and he liked it. 

However, a familiar feeling was kicking in as well, and it was far less pleasant. The soreness from his previous fights was wearing through his wall of adrenaline. He didn’t know much longer he could keep this up. Was it even legal to hold the entire tournament in one night? He wasn’t sure. Not like it mattered, anyway—he’d done far worse for far less.

He just needed to win this match, and then the one after that, and he’d be good to go. He’d be able to fix everything. Just two more fights.

“And in this corner, we have…”

As long as he wasn’t facing off against Bucko the Tattooed Wonder—

“...Ben Coolidge!” 

Stan’s heart stopped. 

No. _No._ That didn’t make any sense. How could he _be here,_ had they tracked him down somehow? And if they tracked _him_ down, that meant—oh, sweet _Moses_ , Ford and Fiddleford were in danger, they were in danger and it was _all his fault—_

_ “PININGTON?!”  _

Stan took one look at Ben’s shocked expression, and realized that his former poker buddy was just as confused as he was. 

The umpire stepped between them. “Alright, fellas, no kicking, no biting, no shots beneath the belt…” 

“Holy—it _is_ you.” Ben was staring at the scars on Stan’s neck. “You’re really—holy **(EXPLETIVE)**. This doesn’t—we killed you. We killed you, Frank _killed_ you—”

Stan shrugged, feigning nonchalance even as every inch of his body trembled. 

“Yeah, well...it didn’t take.” 

The announcer’s hand cut through the air like a knife.

“FIGHT!” 

Stan lunged forward and landed a blow straight between Ben’s eyes. Ben staggered back, still reeling from the shock of Stan’s miraculous return from the grave. Stan took the opportunity to give him a few solid jabs to the side before skirting away to avoid Ben’s counter-attack. 

The crowd gasped and roared louder than ever. The energy of this fight was palpable; they could practically  _ feel _ it crackling through the air. Fiddleford’s fingers slipped on his banjo’s fingerboard and he stopped playing, watching Stan fight in a mixture of awe and confusion. Whatever was going on in the ring was  _ different  _ than the other matches. Both men resembled wild animals more than they did boxers; wolves, cornered and desperate and fighting to survive. 

Something was wrong. 

“I don’t know how you did it,” Ben muttered, eyes glowing with fear and rage. “I don’t know how you did it, but you always were a cockroach, weren’t you? A good-for-nothing cheat—”

Stan swung at his head. Ben ducked and rammed into Stan’s stomach, sending him sprawling and knocking the breath from his lungs. Stan immediately rolled to his feet and scrambled backwards, trying to resume his fighting stance. 

He wasn’t quick enough. Ben’s uppercut connected with his jaw, and sparks flew in front of his eyes. 

_ Sparks flew in front of his eyes as he heard the familiar crunch of his nose breaking. _

Stan roared and charged him, bowling him over. Ben was only down for a moment before he caught Stan in the ribs with a right hook, sending him back to the floor. While Stan was down, he landed blow after blow on his face, his head—

_ He laid there on his back, staring up at the small strip of night sky visible from the alley.  _

—and suddenly Ben’s hands were wrapped around his throat, digging into the jagged scar—

_ He couldn’t get enough air—it felt like he was choking on something. _

—people were shouting, men were trying to pull Ben off of him, but there was a primal mania in his eyes and his grip was like a vice—

_ He tried to make a sound, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t swallow, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t move and he was going to die here, he was going to die and he hadn’t made millions yet, hadn't made nearly enough to come home and his family would never even know what happened to him and he was  _ all alone—

“STANLEY!” 

Everything froze. 

Stan slowly turned, straining against the hands around his neck, the hands that were trying to kill him. Darkness blurred on the edge of his vision, and he gasped for air that wouldn’t come. 

But he saw him. 

Standing in the bleachers next to Fiddleford, a wrinkled flyer clutched in his hand. 

Ford.

He...he came. 

He really came. 

_ He handed the napkins and pen to Stan, who slowly wrote down two words.  _

YOU CAME __

_ Ford looked up, startled. “Of course I came!”  _

_ “Um, Stanley, I...I have something for you.”  _

_ Stan froze at the cover staring back at him.  _

American Sign-Language for Beginners. __

_ “I don’t know what I would’ve done with myself if I’d lost you.”  _

_ “If you won’t do it for yourself, then...do it for me.” _

_ I don’t want to lose you again.  _

For a split second, Stan met Ford’s eyes.

And the meaning there was loud and clear.

Stan smiled. 

  
  


“LEFT HOOK!” 

  
  


His fist slammed into the side of Ben’s face with enough force to knock him flat on his back. The guards and referees immediately restrained him and Stan got to his knees, gasping for air. 

“STANLEY!” 

Stan stood shakily, scanning the crowd, and saw Ford running towards him. Without a second thought he jumped the rope, stumbling to meet him halfway. 

With one final burst of speed, Ford rocketed into Stan and wrapped his arms around him tight enough to hurt. Twelve fingers dug into Stan’s back, each of them trembling. 

Stan didn’t mind. 

“You knucklehead,” Ford whispered. “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“I thought you hated me,” Stan croaked, burying his head into Ford’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, I know you don’t. Just my dumb brain bein’ stupid.” 

Ford closed his eyes to keep the tears from falling. “I think...we’ve both been stupid.” 

Stan chuckled and pulled away from the embrace. Suddenly, his eyes widened.

“Oh, crap. We better get outta here.” 

He pulled Ford towards the exit, grabbing Fiddleford along the way. Stan caught a glimpse of Willie through the crowd, mouth agape as they ran past him. Stan flipped him the double-bird and kept running. 

“Wh-what about...the tournament?” Fiddleford panted as they took off down the street. 

“Too many...people...who wanna...kill me,” Stan replied. “Not...worth it.” 

“I have done so much running tonight,” Ford gasped.


End file.
